


Pawns in This Game of Chess

by Atypical16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1960's Girl Power, Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Objectification, One Shot, POV Multiple, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: The Dark Lord is not pleased with his supposedly loyal Knight, Icarus Yaxley. Luckily, a move against him is presented in the form of Yaxley's misbehaving daughter.





	Pawns in This Game of Chess

**Author's Note:**

> Distant cousin of The Outliers & Sort the Bedlam.

_I can’t use what I can’t abuse_  
_And I can’t stop when it comes to you_  
Garbage, “Vow”

-o-o-o-

Icarus Yaxley was in the middle of a conference, listening to the testimony—or what was supposed to be one but had degraded into petty argument. As Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, he was subjected to this rubbish fortnightly on a _Saturday evening,_ no less.

The conferences always went the same way: Rudy Baker gave a litany of the veiled attacks on muggles, lying through his teeth how they came about. The kicker was that Icarus wasn’t the least bit concerned about attacks on muggles. The less muggles, the better. However, the Ministry he planned on working for was no longer, thanks to Grindelwald’s untimely defeat.

The meeting would’ve been 59 minutes shorter if Icarus could speak openly, but preventing him from doing so was the unwelcome presence of Archer Elm, the other half of the Administration Department. If that Dumbledore arse-licker caught even a tinge of foul play, he’d run straight to the Aurors.

The upside of Elm’s repulsiveness was that Baker also hated him and didn’t mind telling him in plainest terms. The end of the conferences always went the same as well: they’d exchange insult until their little brains burnt out and turned to Icarus for his parting response, which was the same every time. Rather than give the truthful response that they were a pair of disgraceful monkeys, Icarus simply said, “Thank you, gentlemen.” 

He opened his mouth to utter the blessed words, grateful that this shit-show was over with for another 14 days. But just then, a knock came from the door, startling the other two, while Icarus tried not to roll his eyes. 

“Enter,” he commanded, “and it’d better be important.” 

“It is, sir.” His secretary, June, poked her head through the door, face tight with tension. “The headmaster of Hogwarts has requested you.”

This was the only acceptable reason June could interrupt the meeting, for any other would prolong it. Despite the apprehension it brought, this was his ticket out of the small talk Baker always tried to engage him in afterward. “Thank you, June,” he said, standing up. “Good day, gentlemen.”

He walked out, hopefully concealing his unease, before they could respond. There was a legitimate reason for the headmaster of Hogwarts to be contacting him in the middle of a conference on a bloody Saturday: his children attended Hogwarts. Actually, his son had finished two years prior, but his daughter was there, three-quarters of the way through her sixth year.

However, the headmaster’s summons likely had nothing to do with her, as he not only ruled over Hogwarts but led the noble Knights of Walpurgis, of which Icarus was steadily maintaining senior status.

That did not exempt him from the slight cramp he felt in his stomach as he wondered what matter his Lord had to discuss with him so urgently. Curling his fist around the Floo Powder and extending it into the black marble fireplace, he raked through any recent events that might’ve indicated bad news, but none came to mind.

“Headmaster’s fireplace, Hogwarts!” he declared, twisting into dust before landing on his feet on another cool, sleek surface.

“Good evening, Icarus,” said the figure seated at the grand desk in front of him.

Lord Voldemort had started his legacy as a student at Hogwarts back when he was known as Tom Riddle, shaping all the influential pureblood boys into Knights. He continued to recruit in the years following as professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Though it had to stay hidden, the power of the Knights spanned across the UK.

“My Lord,” Icarus responded, bowing slightly and brushing his shoulders. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Please sit,” Riddle said, gesturing to a chintz armchair next to a small wooden one. Icarus took the former, for the latter was clearly for a wayward student. He briefly wondered why that, too, hadn’t been transfigured—perhaps he hadn’t bothered, since no one else was coming. Or so he assumed.

Riddle was simply watching him. Though he grew more withdrawn and sallow each year, the man could still get a witch in five seconds flat if he wished, but as far as Icarus knew, he hadn’t in about a decade. Riddle’s bloodshot but piercing eyes took in the man in front of him, drilling holes into his skull. It was a bit too intense for Icarus, so he glanced around the room.

When the previous headmaster, Armando Dippet, had occupied the room, the walls had been covered with portraits of past headmasters. Now it was just one: Riddle in muted-color paint just behind Riddle in the flesh, who was still giving Icarus that unnerving stare.

“How-how may I be of assistance, my Lord?” he asked kindly, hating himself for stumbling, hating this whole dynamic, if he was honest. Riddle was a half-blood and the Yaxley bloodline had remained noble and untainted for centuries. Surely the situation should have been reversed.

“Icarus,” Riddle said in a false-friendly tone. “I’m sorry to inform you that your daughter has not yet returned from Hogsmeade.”

Icarus nodded curtly, picturing his pretty, disobedient brat of a daughter. Her mother was useless at teaching her propriety, so he’d taken it into his own hands, but he only had the girl over the summer.

He was not about to admit that to Riddle, however. “Perhaps she’s lost her way?” he suggested, taking on the inflective voice Baker had when his bollocks was extra thick.

The smile Riddle responded with made him grit his teeth. “She’s in sixth year—that places her at 16 years old, yes?”

Icarus could only nod and fight the urge to slam his head against the oak desk.

“Not to mention, if my sources are correct, this is her _third_ time arriving far later than appropriate,” Riddle continued, “hence the personal summons. The last two times, I was informed, she was accompanied by a boy, Julius-Plinius Wilder of Ravenclaw.” He raised his dead, blackened eyes to Icarus. “A half-blood.”

“I appreciate your concern, my Lord,” he said, voice steady. “We are planning her wedding to Lucas Nott as soon as she comes of age in July.”

The headmaster didn’t answer, shifting his gaze to the scroll on the desk in front of him. From his upside-down view, Icarus recognized the pigtailed girl in the photograph as his daughter at age 11.  

“Yes, judging by her OWL scores, she’s more than bright enough to find her way back to Hogwarts on time. It’s not a question of intelligence regarding young Harpalyke—my, what an interesting choice for a name. She’s quite like her namesake, isn’t she?”

Outside of his control, Icarus’ hands clenched into fists before he hastily ran them over his leg, pretending to smooth down his robes. What business was it of this bastard orphan’s who he named his daughter after? As if he hadn’t needled him enough with that affair with said namesake all those years ago.

“My apologies for my daughter causing such a disturbance, my Lord,” he bit out, the politest way of saying _fuck off_ he could muster. “As soon as she returns, I will ensure she is disciplined accordingly.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Icarus.” Riddle gave him another awful smile. “Hogwarts sufficiently does its duty in keeping its students in line.”

Before Icarus could decipher that enigmatic statement, a knock came from the large double-doors behind him. Much to his chagrin, he flinched, causing Riddle to smirk as he called, “Enter.”

A lanky youth with an obsessively-polished Head Boy badge pinned to his burgundy robes entered. Icarus knew even before the boy opened his mouth that he was the typical sanctimonious Gryffindor. 

“Headmaster, the two wanderers are back from Hogsmeade. Wilder and Yaxley are waiting on the platform.” The boy did indeed sound arrogant, but Riddle’s presence seemed to humble him, for he kept his head inclined.

“Thank you, Mr. Dorsey.” 

“What, erm, where should I bring them, sir?” His eyes strayed to Icarus and quickly back to his shoes. His feet were clownishly large, even considering how tall and lanky he was.

Icarus was hoping Riddle would order both the kids into the office, for he wanted to see this little half-blood bastard who kept luring his pure daughter away from the castle. No such luck: “Bring Mr. Wilder to Professor Vector—she will handle him. Send Miss Yaxley here.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said at once, turning 180 degrees and nearly dashing out of the office. “Oh my, Yaxley, are you about to…” they heard him taunt before the doors closed and blocked him out. Icarus remained turned in his seat, glaring at them as they opened again, revealing the tall, slim figure of his daughter.

Her eyes, honey-colored and almond-shaped, widened when they landed on her father, her cupid’s-bow lips parting. Her mint green robes were clean but rumpled, blades of grass clinging to her heels. She stood frozen, knowing trouble was ahead.

Icarus was too enraged to speak, so Riddle broke the silence. “Good evening, Miss Yaxley. It is a pleasure to have you back where you belong. You sure gave your father quite a fright.” 

She didn’t move, eyes on the floor, cheeks flushed.

“Please have a seat, dear,” Riddle prompted. 

Icarus watched her take tentative steps across the vast room, his anger ebbing away, replaced by awe. He hadn’t seen his daughter since the previous summer, for she hadn’t returned for Christmas—he still hadn’t gotten an explanation for that—and she’d somehow grown even more beautiful since then. To no avail, he tried to keep away a memory from last summer by the shore: her in a little bathing suit with a mini-skirt, her long legs on display.

“Have you got anything to say for yourself, dear?” Riddle asked in his pseudo-polite voice. “You’ve broken school rules three times now.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled, finally bringing Icarus back to reality, the rage returning. This defiant bitch wouldn’t spare him a glance and who did Riddle think he was, talking to her like _he_ was her father? 

“Sorry is not good enough,” Icarus snapped, standing up. “Look at me, little girl.” 

Before he could control himself, his hand was curled into her jaw, yanking her face upright. Her lips were pushed together, her feline eyes widened. Through the rage, an absurd flood of desire sent his blood rushing straight between his legs. 

“If I hear you’re misbehaving one more time, I will pull you right out. It is because of my generosity that you are not at home preparing to be a proper wife like you should be. Thus, I recommend you show some respect, girl, do you understand me?”

He released her, watching her rub the red marks on her cheeks and avert her eyes. “Yes, Father.” 

“We’ll see about that,” he declared, turning his back on his daughter. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Headmaster. Punish her how you see fit.”

“Will do, Icarus,” said Riddle just as Icarus’ hand released the Floo Powder. 

When his fireplace in his office spat him back out, he heaved a sigh, grateful to be out of his Lord’s presence. Despite his loyalty and faith in Riddle’s power, Icarus hated the man—and he’d just left him with his prettier-than-average daughter. 

At last, the prickling in his gut explained: Riddle, the cold, calculating Lord of Dark magic, wouldn’t betray a loyal Knight, would he? Just as the question finished, an answer: _yes._ The naked truth was that Icarus trusted that half-blood orphan bastard not one bit. And Harpalyke—often he suspected she knew more than any 16-year-old girl should.

He sat at his desk and propped his head up with his hands. He knew he should get home and drown his stress with firewhiskey, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. 

-o-o-o-

Tom Riddle began to read the scroll on the desk in front of him. Out of his peripheral vision, he glanced at the girl’s knees as he lowered his eyes. They were smooth, leading to slender legs and heels. This girl most definitely fancied a boy who was not the Nott kid she’d been promised to.

 _Yaxley, Harpalyke._ Her file revealed a plain, freckled-faced first-year with a slight overbite and two thick braids hanging from either side of her head. Decent marks, no record of bad behavior other than the three times she’d gone off with that Ravenclaw. 

Tom looked up at the girl across the desk. She’d clearly blossomed since age 11, though she still had the freckles and the overbite. Her foreign mother had given her gold-flecked eyes and mouse-colored yet glossy hair.

An idea was forming, a delightfully wicked idea for her punishment. Here was the perfect opportunity to replay Yaxley for his traitorous thoughts. He’d taken Yaxley’s first Harpalyke, the girl he’d planned on marrying during his Hogwarts years. This girl’s namesake. Tom let the corner of his mouth lift in a smirk. Clearly Yaxley’s pining had extended beyond his youth.

“Hmm, what to do with you, Miss Yaxley?” he asked in his perfected professor-tone. “Clearly you haven’t learned your lesson, so I supposed you’ll be treated like what you’ve been behaving like. Rise.”

Now thoroughly disconcerted, the girl stood, unconsciously smoothing her robes. He wanted to tell her not to bother, for it wouldn’t last, but instead he commanded, “Come.”

Her heels clicked behind him as she followed him through the small wooden door by the fireplace into his antechamber. “Stand there,” he ordered, pointing his wand at the floor and shooting a small marble of white paint. It exploded on contact, leaving a dry mark on the glossy wood.

In the time it took for her to walk to that spot, Tom situated himself in the high-backed leather chair, goblet in hand, the log in the fireplace overtaken by flames. The girl stood in her designated spot, her pale eyebrows slanted in uncertainty. 

“Undress, Miss Yaxley.” 

A wave of fear rolled off of her as her mouth dropped open. Tom held her eyes and dug into her soft little mind as easy as pulling a wrapper off a sweet. Her horror was beyond instinct, stemming from a memory, which played out in front of him without prompt.

She was standing naked, loose hair covering pert breasts, in a room that clearly belonged to her, if the wallpaper depicting lavender branches against silver and white was any indication. Like any other upper-class girl’s room, except she was naked in front of the tall, blond wizard who had just been in his office. 

The girl in the memory bristled under her father’s cold gaze _._ She didn’t recognize the hunger in his bloodshot blue eyes, mistaking it for anger. Growing hard under his trousers, Tom waited eagerly for something to happen, but the memory faded out. 

Only feet in front of him, she seemed ready to burst into tears. Poor, innocent dear, he thought, smirking. “I said _undress_ , Miss Yaxley. I do not tolerate disobedience.”

Visibly trembling, she pulled off her robes, revealing her matching white bra and knickers. Hugging her legs were plain above-the-knee hose. Her body was girlish, immature; he preferred them older and thicker, but she would certainly be enjoyable enough.

“Well, well, look who’s all grown up, or pretends to be, rather,” Tom taunted when he’d finished his assessment. “I can see you’ve had some plans this evening. Come here…on your knees.” 

Her chest heaved as her eyes filled with tears. Already she was breaking, the silly little girl, and the fun had only just begun. “Miss Yaxley,” he prodded impatiently. “I have ways to make you obey whether you choose to or not, but this is the easiest way for you to learn your lesson. Is that understood, dear?” 

She lowered her gaze, a single tear leaking out, which she hastily wiped away. “Yes, Professor.”

“Good. On your knees.” Taking a sip from his goblet, he watched her get on all fours, her hair spilling over her shoulders, head ducked and palms against the floor. The sight of Yaxley’s precious, pureblood daughter crawling to him stiffened his cock even more. 

When she was close enough, he tugged her arm until she was draped face-down across his lap, arse up and ripe for the spanking. He did exactly that, relishing the feel of her jerking in pain, her ribs rubbing his erection and sending a burst of need through his legs.

A pitiful yelp filled the air with the second slap, the girl flinching violently. He held her by her slender throat, eyes on the puffy handprint stamped into her pale arse cheek. He quite enjoyed doling corporal punishment out to naughty girls. The witnessing of the spankings at Wool’s provided material for his earliest fantasies. And now, as the most powerful sorcerer in the world, he could indulge whenever he pleased. 

“Naughty, filthy girl,” he needled, threading his voice with contempt and giving her another smack. “Is this how a pureblood witch behaves? Sneaking off with unsuitable rabble every chance she gets?”

“Please, sir, I’ll behave,” she was crying but fell silent at once as he dipped his finger between her thighs and rubbed against the heated spot in the silk, pleased to find it damp. 

“Well, this is interesting,” he remarked, slowly dragging the finger up over the curve of her arse. “The little siren is ready.” He pulled up her knickers until the fabric was digging into the outer lips of her still-damp cunt. “Little wonder Daddy is so protective of you. Do you know why he continues to allow you at Hogwarts until you marry? Because he’d give in and fuck you before Nott if you remained at home.”

At these words, she went so limp, Tom assumed she passed out as the sudden dead weight rolled off and hit the floor. But in an instant, she was upright, chest heaving and lower lip trembling. She met his gaze, eyes filled with the dawning of a haunting realization, spurring another crying fit. 

“Shh, relax yourself, princess,” he said softly, running his fingers down her temple, dipping them into the tears flooding her cheek, and then slowly into her mouth. With his other hand, he held the back of her head, dragging his thumb across her scalp to soothe her. It worked—her full lips were closing around his two fingers.

“Such a sweet and pretty girl you are,” he coaxed, sliding them in and out while his cock throbbed impatiently against the fabric of his trousers. “Mr. Nott will be lucky to have such a beautiful, submissive wife.”

He withdrew his fingers and the ghost of a smile crossed her flushed face. He’d gotten her in; now the real fun and games could begin.

“Come here, princess.” With the hand on the back of her head, Tom pulled her closer until her chin was inches away from his belt buckle. The girl’s red-rimmed, apprehension-filled eyes peeked up at him, but he ignored her as he undid his trousers.

He assumed he’d have to coax her more to open her mouth for him. It took only a nudge for her to part those sweet lips and let his cock slide into wet warmth. Digging into her mind, he deduced that this was her first sexual experience. Perfect.

“What a good girl.” He held her head, twisting his fist into her hair, and caressed her jaw. She was relaxing, closing her eyes and going deeper, her hair grazing his inner leg as it fell from behind her ear. He unhooked her bra and slipped the straps from her shoulders, pulling it off. She paused before continuing with a nudge. 

Tom could feel himself getting closer to the edge, but it was not yet time. “Such a good job, princess. Would you like your reward now?”

She hummed assent, the back of her throat hugging his cock and sending vibrations through his whole body. Dangerously close to release, Tom gently took her jaw and pushed her away. Then he stood, tucking his erection back into his trousers, stepped to the side, and pointed to the chair. “Sit here, Miss Yaxley.”

Those pretty eyes were wide again, gold irises nearly consumed by pupils large with blatant fear. Merlin, was she innocent, so easy to play with. Not a surprise, as seducing women was on the infinite list of his skills, and Harpalyke Yaxley could hardly be called a woman.

She climbed onto the chair, assuming pureblood witch position: knees together, back straight, dainty hands folded in her lap.

“Now you want to be a proper lady?” he scoffed. “Lie back and open your legs.” 

Apparently, the girl was frozen, so he bore down on her shoulder until she reclined. Her knees stayed shut, irking him. His mouth tightened and his hand moved to his wand, but he changed his mind and placed it on the top of her head. It traveled down her face, caressing her cheek, and settled in between her perky little tits, atop her pounding heart.

“Are you afraid, Miss Yaxley? Tell me the truth.” As if her expression wasn’t screaming the answer. 

“A-a little, sir,” she whimpered, fighting the breaths threatening to burst from her chest.

Much more than a little, but Tom let it slide. He dragged his hand over her concave stomach and over her hip, which was wrapped in the tiniest layer of padding. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed a girl. In his youth, he fought his carnal urges but these little things were just too much fun to play with. Now at 40, he wasn’t going to bother scolding himself for indulging. After all, it wasn’t every day he was presented with the chance to defile the daughter of a man who thought himself superior than Lord Voldemort.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he slid her knickers down her long, limp legs and propped them up. As he rose, they immediately closed again, mixing rage into his blood.

Towering over her, he pulled out his wand and pointed it down at her. She flinched, letting out a squeak, as ropes shot out and coiled around her thighs, yanking them apart and securing them to the arms of the chair.

As compensation, her hands flew to her chest, closing over it as if he was interested in underdeveloped 16-year-old girl tits when his fresh pink prize was bare between her legs. Interestingly, the lips were glistening—though unaware of it, she was turned on.

“Poor little Harpalyke craves attention from being ignored or scorned at home. All she wants is Daddy’s love and he tells her she’s not good enough.” 

She was breathing heavily now, her faced pinched with hurt and traces of confusion.

“Words only to convince himself that he doesn’t want you when he fights the urge to ravish you whenever you’re near,” Tom continued. “Even a fool like him can see how beautiful and docile you are.”

Her lips, puffy from sucking his cock, parted and there it was, the spark of adoration in her eyes. Yaxley’s little girl was just about his now. “Play with yourself.” 

Fear mixed back in as she stared dumbly up at him, mouth still slightly open.

“Miss Yaxley,” Tom said in a firm, controlled tone. “If you do not obey my command, I will fuck you until you are lying in a pool of your own blood. Your cries will not leave this chamber.” 

Her shaking hand moved to her cunt, covering the raw lips with her fingers. She gave a few slow rubs, too shy to immerse herself in it.

“I know you can do better than that, with how many times you’ve touched yourself to those disgraceful fantasies involving that half-blood.” 

Her facial expression was of clear horror, the color leaving her cheeks. _He can read minds!_ Her head was screaming but her body couldn’t seem to react.

Smirking, Tom lowered himself in front of her and moved her hand to her side to inspect her further. With a fingertip he traced her slit, watching it dampen and clench with arousal. “Would you like me to help you, darling?”

“Yes, Professor—” 

“Master.” Directing a hard look into her eyes, he let his hand fall to his side. “I am your master, Miss Yaxley. You obey _me_ above all, even your father. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Master.” Her voice was still mewling but now breathy with desire, evidenced by the accumulation of fluid on her inner lips. Her cheeks flushed with abashment but the desire outweighed it.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered, gripping his erection through his clothing. It was aching to play but it was still not yet time. “Beg me for it and maybe I’ll grant it.” 

“Please, Master, please touch me,” she breathed, tilting her hips up.

“So nicely you beg,” Tom told her. “Perhaps I will.” 

With his forefinger and thumb, he spread her cunt, the tight little hole barely visible between the lush, throbbing lips. He worked a finger slowly inside, sliding against raw heat.

The girl winced and let out a whimper of pain, but by the time he’d buried it up to the knuckle of his palm, her whole cunt was soaked with arousal. He withdrew his finger to find it smeared with a coat of red tint. Yaxley’s daughter was pure in every sense of the word. Until now.

Holding her gaze, he brought his finger to his mouth. The taste of her hymen was metallic yet sweet on his tongue. Now it was her turn to try: he brought his finger to her lips, her breath hot and heavy against his damp skin. Slowly, he dipped two of them in her mouth again, her tongue pulling the fluid from them.

As he moved them in and out, the thumb of his other hand found the hard nub just below her mound and pressed into it. Immediately, she stiffened with pleasure, her eyes rolling toward her brow bone.

“Look how my little princess writhes for me,” he hissed, rubbing her clit and jamming his fingers deeper down her throat. She moaned around them, rocking her hips in rhythm with his touch. Just as he felt her muscles stiffening, preparing for climax, he took his hands away and straightened up.

“Master, please,” she cried, all propriety abandoned. “Please continue, I beg of you!”

Tom gave her a smile, feigning kindness. “Such a sweet girl, such a fast learner. Are you ready to give yourself fully to me, princess?”

“Yes!” she answered without hesitation. Of course, she hadn’t yet taken a cock, and her head would surely be reminding her that it would hurt if she wasn’t so desperate to climax. No matter—she was about to learn now. He thrust two fingers inside of her cunt, stretching the tight inner walls, bringing forth a howl.

Without further ado, he withdrew, took out his cock, and rubbed it against the tender flesh, smearing fluid all over it. A second later, he pushed into her, another prize claimed at last. 

Tom had taken many a virgin before, indifferent to the initial tears and protests. “Shh, relax, darling,” he soothed and she calmed almost right away. Perhaps this was an advantage to the young ones, or maybe the purebloods were better raised to submit. Either way, the girl took each thrust with diligence, though tears still flooded her face, her muscles locked.

“Ouch, Master, it hurts,” she whimpered, clutching his shoulders.

Considering it wouldn’t be enjoyable if she cried the whole time, Tom leaned over and pressed his cheek against hers, holding her still while he slowed his pace.

“So nice and tight you are, the perfect fit,” he growled into her neck, out of breath himself. 

He gripped her jaw and kissed her roughly, tasting the mix of her body fluids. Soon she was moaning too much to reciprocate, so he buried his face into her neck and sank her teeth into soft skin, drinking in the scent of anxiety-tinged sweat and lavender perfume.

“Master!” Her high-pitched cry went straight into his ear. In his arms, her back arched and he felt the prick of her nails into his shoulders through his robes. “Please—ah—!”

She wrapped her long legs around him and met his thrusts until she let out a sigh of ecstasy, driving the back of her head against the chair. Meanwhile, Tom plunged into her, racing toward his own climax. He thought about grabbing the girl’s nearly-nonexistent tits or throat, but he quite liked the feel of her hot skin against his chest, her arms around his neck. With a grunt muffled by the clump of hair stuck to his face, he emptied himself inside of her. For the first time in ages, his incessantly running mind blanked out.

Not a second later, he was upright, adjusting his clothes and willing his breathing steady. The sight of the girl lying weak brought immense pleasure, especially her cunt dripping with his seed, pearly white against swollen red.

“Spread yourself for me, Miss Yaxley.”

No hesitation now—a hand trembling now from the onslaught of orgasm reached down and parted the puffy folds. His viscous seed dripping from her hole onto the leather of the chair was an even more delicious view, along with her face, flushed with reddened lips and eyes filled with adoration. The face of a girl who’d been properly fucked and wanted even more. 

Tom stepped back and took it all in, filing it away for later, for the nights plagued with insomnia and boredom. Though it was likely he could simply summon her and she’d jump at the chance to please him as often as he wished until the end of the school year. Yes, Yaxley’s daughter belonged to him now, his little toy he could play with at will.

He waved his wand, uncoiling the ropes around her thighs and pulling them back in, leaving red tracks across her delicate skin. “Your punishment has finished, Miss Yaxley,” he informed her coolly, dropping her robes into her lap before leaving the chamber. 

Taking a seat at his desk, he glanced at the 1000-year-old text he’d been translating from Latin, which had crucial information about strengthening one of his horcruxes. The problem was, he had no idea where he’d left off. The Dorsey kid’s unprecedented but not unwelcome interruption had distracted him.

Eventually, he found his place and translated a whole paragraph, and still the girl had not come out. With a rough sigh of impatience, Tom marked the next line in the book and returned to the antechamber.

She was sitting on the floor, fully dressed and bawling. As soon as she heard his footsteps, she jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at her blotchy face, keeping her eyes averted.

“Feeling like a right whore now, are you?” Tom goaded quietly. “Perhaps that’ll teach you how to behave, Harpalyke. You are dismissed.”

Head still ducked, she nodded and ambled out, steps heavy with misery. As soon as the double-doors closed behind her, Tom returned to his seat and leaned back, hands folded behind his head, satisfied. It was a good night, excellent use of an unexpected treat. Now the girl was consumed by shame and remorse, blocking out the adoration. But Yaxley’s sweet, neglected girl would be back soon enough, aching for his affections.

-o-o-o- 

Harpalyke Yaxley was in the library, a thick encyclopedia of all plants needed for potion-making open in front of her. She perused it often, so no one would question her reading it now. The truth was that she couldn’t read a single word, for her mind was racing at the speed of light.

In her lap, her hands still shook. Her eyes were puffy and raw. In sum, nowhere near ready to show her face in the Slytherin common room, where a party was likely in full swing. 

What in the hell had just transpired? Her thoughts were too incoherent to provide an answer. She glanced at her watch: 10:11. How had the previous hour been only 60 minutes? Even more shocking was that May 16, 1965 was still _today_ , for it felt like three days had passed since breakfast.

She supposed it was due to the majority of the day differing so greatly from the previous hour. To keep the tears prickling her eyes at bay, she recalled the Hogsmeade trip so long ago, lost in the blissful afternoon with JP, the only boy she trusted in the entire world.

That was not to say JP was a saint, for the only other males she knew—her father, brother Heracles, and the Slytherin boys—were all objectively terrible. Now she could add the headmaster, the famously brilliant Tom Riddle, to that list—no, she was not going to think of Riddle.

Back to JP: his given name was Julius-Plinius, but he’d told her that it was too pretentious, one his pureblood father insisted on giving him. He’d just blurted that casually one afternoon in a Potions lessons a couple months ago. “Oh, I forgot I’m talking to a Yaxley,” he’d muttered after, turning away. “Only interested in rich boys, I reckon.”

He’d eat his words, for Harpalyke had a knack for potions, and thus their Felix Felicis was the best brewed in the class. That had shut him right up. However, the tiny phial of liquid luck hadn’t abated the anger she’d had at JP’s snide remark, so she let a tiny drop of the golden liquid soak into her tongue and hunted him down after their Astronomy lesson. 

She’d cornered him in some corridor near Ravenclaw Tower amidst a group of blokes and, propelled by Felix Felicis, told him to retract his ignorant assumption.

“Who’s Lucas Nott, then?” he’d retorted.

“That’s not my doing.”

He looked like he hadn’t believed her, but his response was, “You know, you’re rather decent in Potions.”

She’d thanked him, he’d told her politely to get lost, and they’d parted ways. Until the next weekend at Hogsmeade, where fate brought them together and urged them to sneak off. Now it was a cherished tradition despite getting caught every time.

This afternoon had been especially magical, for they’d gotten lost in the forest near the Black Lake and shared their first kiss. Despite his confidence in nearly everything else, JP’s lips had been hesitant, his hands holding her hips as if she was made of glass. “You know, Harpalyke,” he’d said, “you can marry me instead of Nott. I’ll let you go on to seventh year, no problem.”

In the dim candlelight from the center of the table, Harpalyke closed her eyes and smiled, replaying the sunlit memory, surrounded by blooming leaves and JP’s boy-scent. His idea, even with it the high probability of being cast out of the Sacred 28—and all the wealth it came with—filled her with hope. A wondrous, fluffy hour of hope, only to be destroyed by her own self, of all people, by kissing Tom Riddle. 

If he’d taken her by force, perhaps she’d be excused, but Harpalyke had given in entirely, thrilled with his attention despite him spinning her heart around like a top. When she opened her eyes, her vision was blurred with tears. This time, she let them fall.

Fortunately, no other students were in the library, and Madam Elspeth either didn’t yet know she was there or didn’t care. The sorrow and shame leaked out of her eyes, her supply of tears seemingly eternal.

If there was anything valuable her miserable parents had taught her, it was that no one could change the past. “Otherwise,” her mum had said once, “I would have done so many years ago.” Her mother had married her father young and desperate for English citizenship. Yet now she never rose from bed, disenchanted with England and her English family. Harpalyke had no sympathy for her, only resolve to avoid becoming her.

Marrying Lucas Nott, another typical Sacred 28 arsehole, was a portkey directly into that circus. No, she had to come up with a better plan. Marrying JP was no longer an option. Nott she gave not one damn about, but Julius-Plinius Wilder deserved better. The despair that _she_ could not be his better gripped her heart for one long second, but thankfully it let go, allowing her thoughts to finally slow.

Her options now were to willingly marry Nott and convince him to let her finish Hogwarts—unlikely, for proper pureblood witches had no need for seven years of magical education. The other option, avoiding marriage altogether, had seemed impossible—until now, for Riddle, in all his savagery, had handed her an explosive that could blow that plan entirely off the track.

Of course, if even a hint got out that she’d given herself up to the headmaster of Hogwarts as a student, her reputation would sink lower than the grindylow tunnels beneath the Black Lake. A rumor of that nature would deter any suitors—including JP—but it wouldn’t deter employment.

Brewster’s Apothecary, which required NEWTs, was her first choice. The witch she admired most had worked there: Harpalyke Murdoch, a senior healer at St. Mungo’s. The daughter of Icarus Yaxley held the woman who shared her name in very high esteem.

Icarus Yaxley—just the mention of her father’s name brought bile to her mouth. Belatedly, the recollection of one of Riddle’s taunts smacked her in the face. _Because he’d give in and fuck you before Nott if you remained at home._

Against her will, her mind brought up that dreadful day last summer when her father had ordered her to stand naked before him. He’d hissed nothing but criticisms, definitely more repulsed than attracted. Then, when he’d been in Riddle’s office so very long ago, he’d had something strange in his eyes.

Harpalyke realized that, under the table and her robes, her hand was sliding up her inner thigh. She could’ve let both JP and the headmaster have her in the same day and it still wouldn’t have been as shameful as simultaneously loathing and lusting after one’s own daughter. It was _he_ , Icarus Yaxley, who was the disgraceful one, not her. 

And if he discovered her encounter, it was he who would be destroyed. Much of Magical Britain would have a holiday with the information. His influence as a formidable pureblood would also sink into the depths of the Black Lake.

A full grin crossing her face, Harpalyke pulled the book closer, her hand still between her legs, the last of her tears drying on her face. The thought of her father’s fall from grace was almost as comforting as having a chance at forging her own path. Almost.

One thing was for sure—she refused to feel the obligatory shame regarding the previous hour. In fact, she surely wouldn’t mind seeing Riddle once or twice more during her time at Hogwarts.

-o-o-o-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking this out. :)


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